


Beneath the Covers of This Bed

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Adult Pines Twins, Amnesia, Bill's here to ruin it all, Dipper finally got with Wendy, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Weirdmageddon never happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5522315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the age of 21, Dipper finally has everything he’s always wanted: the job, the home, and, most importantly, the girl. He couldn’t be happier, until, in Wendy’s temporary absence, an amnesiac Bill Cipher charms his way into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Dipper asked Wendy Corduroy out for the third time, he didn’t actually expect her to say yes. After all, there was still the age gap, but he came to find out that three years didn’t matter as much when you weren’t a teenager anymore.

They’ve been dating for almost a year and a half now and Dipper’s never been happier in his life. It’s everything he’s ever dreamed of – well, minus the evil triangle, but those were never good dreams to begin with, so he’s glad that’s not included in this fantasy. But it’s so pleasant it barely feels real, like a simulation of perfection that he thinks he’ll wake up from but never does. He loves it. He loves her.

Wendy is a work of art, even more so than when she was fifteen. Her auburn hair doesn’t roll all the way down her back anymore, but rather just past her shoulders, and her sea-green eyes are bright as they’ve always been, above the speckling of freckles across her cheeks. She’s still fond of flannel, which is great because so is Dipper, whether it’s on her or him, or off both of them and discarded on the bedroom floor.

After all the survival training most of her life for an apocalypse that never came, she’s still handy with an ax. She works in the logging business like her father. Dipper, meanwhile, isn’t the television show ghost hunter he envisioned himself to be when he was twelve. Rather, when he’s not helping out at the Mystery Shack, he spends his time hunting real ghosts, for fun or for profit. He’s been paid handsomely for a couple of local exorcisms in the past. It’s not as if he couldn’t attain higher education if he tried, but he’s perfectly content doing odd jobs involving the supernatural, and writing a book on the side. Besides, he doesn’t really want to leave Gravity Falls.

His sister, on the other hand, is attending an art school in California. He’s been on the receiving end of constant updates via excited phone calls. Mabel’s doing well, to say the least.

Fate has been so overwhelmingly on his side in the past few years that Dipper’s almost let go of his instinctive fear of something inevitably coming to ruin it all. He just never expected this something to come in the form of an unsuspecting one-eyed man in the gift shop he meets on one good day in a string of many.

He’s humming to himself on his way out of the Shack to unlock the door and flip the sign to ‘OPEN’ and his giddiness must be apparent on his face because the lone man waiting outside smirks at him and says,

“Ah, young love.”

The glamour of his whole appearance, from bow tie to suit to messy locks of golden hair that oppose the rest of his ritzy atmosphere, throws Dipper off for a moment. Is that black liner accenting his eyes? Correction, eye, the other one is hidden beneath a black medical patch tied with strings crossing his face. The visible one is bright azure, fixed on him with a friendly light in it.

“I, uh…” Rubbing the back of his neck and adjusting the hood of his blue jacket, he smiles, his face a little warm. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Dipper, eh?”

He’s immediately suspicious, staring at the stranger with wide eyes. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s kinda-sorta-a little bit plain as day on your nametag.”

“Oh. Right.” This time, his cheeks are staying pink with embarrassment. It doesn’t help when he realizes he’s blocking the entryway for the first customer of the morning, and promptly steps aside, ushering him in. “Sorry, I must be having a really off day.”

“No worries, kid, it’s like I said. Young love.” The visitor turns a circle in the center of the floor, looking around at the merchandise and fake attractions lining the walls. “So this is the Mystery Shack. A bit drab, wouldn’t you say?”

“I wouldn’t say, actually, my uncle might bite my head off if I did. It is losing some of the novelty it used to have,” Dipper concedes, leaning against the front of the check-out counter. He’s running the register today, while the recently hired newbie shirks her work and takes over Wendy’s old hideout on the roof. “Have you been here before?”

“Oh, yes, many times. Just never inside.” The potential customer – oh, no, is Dipper becoming like Grunkle Stan, envisioning the people who come through the door as walking wallets? – turns to offer his hand to Dipper, pulling off a glove as he does so. “I don’t believe I ever introduced myself. How rude of me, especially when you’ve been so kind. The name’s Bill.”

The knee-jerk reaction in Dipper screams for him to pull away from the handshake as quick as possible, afraid it's about to turn into blue flame and twisted laughter. There’s only one Bill he knows around here, and, as he draws the connections (yellow-themed suit, eyepatch, bow tie), he kicks himself for being so stupid he didn’t see it the minute he laid eyes on the guy. Even so, he forces himself to keep smiling and grip the demon’s hand for an acceptable length of time.

What would happen if he were to declare he knows what Bill really is? What if it’s not the same Bill? What are the odds it isn’t? What are the odds it is? He doesn’t want to make a fool of himself, especially if this is just some ordinary guy who happens to look very much like a human personification of the triangle dream demon that’s haunted him for years.

He has to think of a question that will verify it one way or another. The light bulb goes off in his head so fast he almost expects to hear the little ‘ding’ that always accompanies a Hollywood hero’s brilliant realization.

“So what do you think of that one?” Dipper asks, pointing to the shelf that holds a taxidermy rodent whose head has been replaced with that of a fish.

Bill picks it up to study it, flashing a patronized smile over his shoulder. “Come on. I know this fake might fool your average sucker, but not me.” He puts the animal back on the shelf and leans in conspiratorially, covering his mouth with one hand. “Just between us, I know where to find some real monsters around here that might rake in a lot more than these phonies your great-uncle makes.”

Maybe Dipper should be more worried about the fact that the man knows Stan is his great-uncle when Dipper only mentioned him as a plain old uncle, or more worried in general that this is almost definitely Bill, but all he can think is, _He’s really pretentious_. He wants to say yeah, he knows where to find real monsters too, does Bill think that business strategy never occurred to him, and oh by the way the jig is up, but before he can go into any of it, the bell above the door jingles as a group of customers from a tour bus flood in.

8:00. Of course it’s time for the first bus, but it completely slipped his mind. By the time Dipper tries to find Bill again, there’s no trace of the fluffed up sunshine-blond head anywhere in the room. He has to rush back around to manage the register, in front of which a line has already grown. For once, he wishes Stan’s phonies weren’t so popular with gullible tourists. Even as he scans souvenirs and puts away the money, his foot is tapping with nervous energy. Everything in him wants to go after Bill and question him, wherever he may be.

Grunkle Stan gives him some relief by starting a tour, and most of the customers flock after him to see more fake attractions. Dipper still can’t leave, for fear of what Stan would do to him if he left the shop unmanned ‘to go on another one of his wild ghost hunts.’ It’s not fun, and he knows from experience.

The remainder of his day is restless, but by the time the gift shop closes, he’s sure Bill is long gone. There’s no point in driving himself up the wall over it, and, looking forward to seeing Wendy at home, he can almost forget all about it. Maybe he'll talk to her about it and see if she remembers Bill Cipher.

Before he closes up for the night, Dipper gives his great-uncle a hug, persisting even when Stan tries to shove away the rare affection he secretly enjoys. He’s going on vacation for two weeks to take another shot at Cash Wheel, leaving Dipper in charge of business full time. In truth, he’s almost glad Stan will be gone for a little while, hopefully long enough to settle whatever Bill is back for and get rid of him so life can continue as perfectly as it should.

Another hug and a drive into town later, Dipper walks into his apartment expecting to smell food. It’s date night with Wendy, so he’s prepared for everything between Chinese takeout and made-from-scratch breakfast for dinner, but the kitchenette is unusually quiet for a Friday night.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, flashing his girlfriend’s contact picture, and he answers as fast as he can unlock it. “Hey, everything okay?”

“Ah, no, not actually. My cousin, you know, the one who has the logging camp upstate, Maddie –” Wendy pauses to draw in a breath. “M-my uncle called a few minutes ago to tell me she was seriously injured on the job, and she’s in the hospital. In critical condition. I’m driving up now, since Maddie was…she’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a sister, growing up with all boys.”

Dipper leans against the doorframe, blinking. He can’t help but imagine an accident like that happening to Wendy instead, and the thought makes his chest hurt. “I’m so sorry, Wendy. Do you want me to follow you there? If you give me directions, I’m sure I can –”

“No, no. Thank you, but I’ll be okay on my own. Besides, isn’t Stan going to be gone for a little while? He needs you to cover for him and run his con act at the Mystery Shack.”

“Yeah, but he knows you’re most important to me, he can always find somebody else.” Already halfway out the door, Dipper has his keys in hand, ready to drop everything. She needs him now more than ever. “I can meet you at a gas station or something and we can go together. It’s no trouble, I promise.”

“Really, you’re too sweet. I would rather be alone for a little bit. I just need to drive and listen to loud music and get it out of my system.” If the heavy rock music in the background is anything to go by, she’s already got a good start on that.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” Dipper asks, sagging against the doorframe again. There’s nothing much he can do to change her mind, he knows.

“Of course I will, babe, I’m Wendy fuckin’ Corduroy. Seriously, don’t worry about me. I’ll keep you posted and let you know when I’ll be coming home. You just stay focused on penny-pinching enough to make Stan proud.”

“Call me if you need anything, okay? I love you.”

“Love you too, boo.”

The line cuts off with a click. Dipper looks around the kitchen for a minute, wondering what to eat. For as long as they’ve had this tradition, he can’t think of a single other incident that’s separated them on date night. He’s not used to ordering a meal for one, but he manages. No sooner than he sets the phone down, it’s buzzing again, this time with Stan on the other end.

“Hey, kiddo, there’s someone here to see you.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, this naked guy just showed up and all he’ll say is your name.”

It doesn’t get much more confusing than this. Dipper rubs his forehead, trying to think of any people he knows that might have recently broken out of an asylum because that seems like it would be the only logical explanation. It hits him after a moment. “One eye?”

“Yeah, actually. You know him?”

Heart sinking with dread, Dipper snatches his keys up and leaves the apartment. “Yeah, I know him.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

There’s no way Stan is safe alone in the house with Bill. Dipper is well above the speed limit even as he passes Durland and Blubbs, but the two of them are too immersed in a word puzzle to notice. At least the lot is deserted, so nobody is in danger when he skids in haphazardly to park in front of the Mystery Shack.

Panting, he hurries inside, his mind jumping to all conceivable possibilities. Bill could’ve killed Stan by now, or possessed him, or might be holding him hostage, or –

Or passed out lengthways across the armchair. That works too. If not for the tautness in his face, Dipper might believe the demon’s sleeping like a baby. There’s an x-shaped cut on Bill’s cheek, just beneath his good eye, and a layer of grime bronzing over his pale skin from forehead to chin.

“Grunkle Stan, what’s going on?”

For once, Stan looks out of place in his own home, dressed in sandals, cargo shorts, and a Hawaiian print t-shirt, all ready to hit the road for paradise. He scratches his nose and snorts. “You ask that like I’d know the answer. He wouldn’t say a word when I asked what happened to him, just started mumbling your name in his sleep. I couldn’t just leave him to fend for himself outside, though. You think I should stay and get to the bottom of this?”

“No, no, don’t worry about it! I can handle this, you go enjoy your vacation. Win it big on Cash Wheel.” The sooner Stan is out of danger, the better. “Here, I’ll get your suitcase.”

“You don’t have to,” Stan starts, but has no choice but to follow. Dipper is already leading the way to the car, toting the surprisingly light suitcase.

“What’s in this thing? Or, what isn’t in it?”

“Nothing,” Stan says with a sly grin. He unlocks the briefcase and lets it fall open. “This is to carry all the Benjamins I’m gonna win!”

“Got it. That’s actually a good plan, better than I expected of you.”

“Thanks – wait, hey!”

Both of them are laughing as Grunkle Stan drags Dipper down (somewhere between his third and fourth summers visiting Gravity Falls, he gained a good foot and a half on the old man) to swipe his hat off and give him a noogie. “There’s a compliment in there somewhere, I swear!”

“You sure you’re gonna be okay holding up on your own here? Running business and dealing with that weirdo at the same time?”

“I’m sure I can do it,” Dipper says confidently. He jostles Stan playfully and adds, “I learned from the best, and I’ve dealt with _you_ for years, so I think I’m more than qualified. Besides, Wendy’s gone upstate to see her cousin, so I’ll have no distractions.”

Stan smiles and squeezes Dipper’s shoulder. “You’ve really grown, kid. Take care, and call me if something happens, alright?”

“Only if you split your winnings with me 50/50,” Dipper jokes, shutting the door for Stan once he climbs in the car. “Drive safe, Grunkle Stan.”

“I always drive safe,” Stan scoffs; his car squeals out of the lot and narrowly misses a tree. Off to a great start.

There’s no time to waste after seeing his uncle off. Dipper returns to the living room to find Bill awake and looking around, but still in the armchair.

“Where am I?” he asks groggily. As he moves his arms out from underneath the blanket, it slips a little lower on his chest. Dipper is immediately on guard, reaching behind him for the baseball bat Stan keeps in the doorway, but Bill isn’t doing anything more than staring at the backs of his hands. Eyes filled with pure confusion, he looks at Dipper. “ _Who_ am I? I… I remember you from somewhere.”

“Don’t play games with me,” Dipper growls, ready to raise his weapon, but there’s absolutely no trace of understanding on Bill’s face. “You can’t expect me to believe you really have a case of amnesia or something.”

Bill doesn’t even get remotely aggressive at that. “I don’t have any better explanation. Can you at least tell me my name before you hit me with that bat you’re trying to hide behind your leg and give me even worse brain damage?”

Chewing his lip, Dipper lets the bat swing more freely at his side, since Bill spotted it anyways. “Your name is William,” he fibs, and pauses, thinking as fast as he can for a way to work this situation to his favor. If Dipper can convince him he’s an ordinary human, then it’s possible the entire threat will be neutralized. “Your nickname is Bill. We met this morning in the gift shop. You know my name?"

“Dipper,” Bill says slowly, and it’s actually weird to hear that coming from him because Dipper can’t remember an instance when Bill ever called him anything other than Pine Tree. “It’s Dipper, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me. What are you doing here?”

Bill raises his arms quickly in surrender. “Yeesh, kid, don’t bite my head off. I honestly don’t know. I think I collapsed on your porch, some old guy brought me in here. I was running from something in the woods, that’s all I can remember.” The blanket is completely pooled in his lap, leaving him exposed from milky shoulders to washboard chest to just a peek of one of his hips. Why is Dipper looking?

He forces himself to focus. Even if the demon does turn out to be an amnesiac, he can’t afford to let his guard down. “What were you running from?”

“I really don’t know. I almost want to say it was a monster, but that’s silly, isn’t it? Monsters don’t exist.” Bill frowns, almost pouts, looking at Dipper like a kicked puppy. “Why don’t you seem to believe me about any of this? Did I try to steal something from your gift shop?”

Dipper has to put up a better act than this if he’s going to convince Bill they don’t have any shared history whatsoever. “No, it’s just a hard story to follow. But if something out there was after you, the least I can do is give you some shelter here. Maybe it was just a big coyote or something,” he suggests, smiling. “I never met you before this morning, so my best guess is that you’re new here in Gravity Falls. Do you want something to drink to help you sleep? It’s late, and it sounds like you’ve had a tiring day.”

“Mm, that would be good. Tea?” Bill asks tentatively.

“Hot tea it is, then.” Sleepytime, coming right up. It is late, but there’s no way he’s getting any rest tonight, not with Bill in the house. But if he can get the dream demon to sleep, it’ll give him some peace of mind, at least.

A grin splits his face, an expression that unnerves Dipper for being too Bill-like, even though the triangle never had a mouth. “You’re not still planning to whop me over the head with that bat, are you?”

With a forced laugh, Dipper sets it down in its regular place and holds up his hands to show they’re free. “You’re safe. For now.”

While he’s waiting for the kettle, he sits at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee and scrolling through his list of phone contacts. He considers calling Wendy, but she’s the last person who needs to hear about this little problem right now. He’d send a message to check on her, but he doesn’t want to risk it if she’s driving, since she’s always waved off his warnings not to text and drive.

The kettle whistles, and Dipper gets up to pour the water, put the tea bag in, and stir, not really thinking about it. He could always turn to Mabel, but he doesn’t want to trouble her either. She’d be horrified to hear that Bill’s back, and probably rush to the Mystery Shack to deal with him herself. It’s best to keep her out of it, for her own safety. He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice Bill’s presence in the kitchen doorway until he turns around. The mug falls from his slack hand and shatters on the floor.

Apparently, Bill lacks any concept of human modesty, standing with his hands clasped behind his back and staring at Dipper with his head cocked. “Is something wrong?”

Stupidly, the first thought in Dipper’s head as his gaze roams lower is _damn that’s a nice V-line._ Why are his eyes even drawn there in the first place? He stops himself from following the happy trail down any farther and jerks back to the more important matters at hand, such as _why is a naked Bill Cipher standing here and how can I get rid of him_? He’s pretty sure his face will catch fire if it gets any hotter. Turning around, he shrugs out of his jacket and throws it in Bill’s general direction.

“Can you, um, cover up a little, please?”

“Oh. Sorry. You can look now.”

Dipper makes the mistake of believing him, only to find him wearing the jacket and it’s just short enough on him that it doesn’t cover anything important at all, and he hides his face in his hands. “Geez, that’s, not what I meant, but okay, uh. Here. Could you please…?” He gestures to his own crotch area as an example, and tosses his hat at Bill. At this rate, he’ll end up being the one naked if Bill doesn’t figure out the idea of clothes pretty soon.

“Better?”

From the floor where he’s trying to clean up the mess, Dipper gives him a thumbs up without looking because he’s honestly a little scared to see what inventive use he might have found for the hat. That's gonna have to be burned. “I’ll make more tea, there’s still some hot water left in the pot. You just go sit in the living room again, okay? And if you have to come back for some reason, please try to, like, wear the blanket?”

“You got it.”

Once he’s alone, he takes a breath and a long sip of coffee, trying to get the scarring image out of his mind. Well, he’s seen Stan coming out of the shower before. _That_ was scarring, so this was almost pleasant by comparison. There’s no way his jeans should be feeling this uncomfortable, though. It would be a lie to say Bill’s lean body isn’t attractive, but he is most definitely not gay, and he's especially not making exceptions for the dream demon that haunted his childhood.

For the first time, he stops to wonder where Bill actually got that body. Dipper can’t think of any men around town that are that good-looking, so it must not have been a local possession, if it is a possession at all. Something about him seems too _Bill_ to be modeled from somebody else, but is Bill powerful enough to create his own physical form? If so, why hadn’t he before now?

Using a new mug (Mabel’s favorite, a cat design with the tail curled as the handle), Dipper takes Bill his tea. He’s immeasurably glad that Bill’s genitals are well-concealed by the blanket.

“Set it off to the side when you finish, I’ll take care of it.”

Bill nods, taking a big gulp and nearly spilling the hot drink all over himself when it burns his tongue. Dipper has to wonder what exactly he expected, and tries really hard not to laugh. He takes the mug and demonstrates how to cool it off, and Bill gives him a genuinely grateful smile. When Dipper hands him the mug back, Bill holds it to his lips, blows across the tea, and looks up at Dipper delightedly, maybe in hope of praise.

“That’s it,” Dipper encourages, patting the top of Bill’s head awkwardly. The feathery blond hair is so soft he almost forgets to lift his hand again. “I think you’re getting pretty good at this blowing thing.” He regrets the choice of words as soon as they’re out of his mouth, but Bill doesn’t seem to pick up on any potential innuendo from it. Of course he doesn’t. “Alright, well, try to get some sleep. I’ll be here if you need something.”

“Thanks, Dipper,” Bill says, like he means it. It really shouldn’t sound as authentic as it does.

Dipper turns out the light and goes back to the kitchen, exhaling slowly as he stares down into his coffee. If this keeps up, he might end up actually trusting Bill, and that would be disastrous. He needs something to help him keep his head on straight, some plan to make sure Bill doesn’t figure out the truth before Dipper figures out some way to banish him for good.

Once he’s sure Bill is sleeping soundly, Dipper locks the doors and goes upstairs to find a blank journal Mabel got him for their 21st birthday, a beautiful work of craftsmanship with a flexible spine, and a brown leather cover with gold edging. The red ribbon tied around it was Mabel’s touch. If he reties it when he’s done, it’ll still look unused. It’s perfect for recording secrets.

Fueled by caffeine, Dipper’s up for the better part of the night, writing down everything he can remember from his encounters with Bill when he was younger, everything to hold against him, to remind himself he’s still dealing with a monster here, not the clueless human Bill may have become. In the margins, he scribbles a few notes so he’ll know which story to stick to if anybody asks who Bill is, or if Bill asks who he is. He’s filled half a page full of questions he needs to keep in mind by the time he passes out, hunched over the new journal.


	3. Chapter 3

Somebody’s hand is shaking Dipper’s shoulder way too early to be time to wake up and he’s about to sock them in the jaw for it, but he registers who it is surprisingly quickly considering the man’s only been here for half a day.

“Morning, Bill,” he mumbles. He’s too exhausted to be really worried about the implications of that sentence yet.

“My stomach is making funny noises.”

Dipper cracks his eyes open reluctantly. Is this what it’s like to take care of a child? He sighs and says, “Probably because you’re hungry. I’ll cook breakfast as soon as I get up.”

“Okay,” Bill says cheerfully, sitting down at the end of the bed with a small bounce. Dipper really hopes he’s wearing clothes this time. “Hey, what’s this?”

Dipper jerks awake instantly, pulling the journal close and searching his sluggish brain for a suitable excuse. “My sister gave it to me to take notes for the book I’m working on, but I haven’t started writing in it yet.”

“You have a sister?”

He’s almost afraid to answer, because what if this is what triggers some memories for Bill? After a moment, he admits, “Yeah, her name is Mabel. Sorry, I’m really tired.”

“Aw, did you not get a lot of sleep last night?” Without waiting for an answer, Bill rambles on, “I did. Never slept better. I feel great!”

“Good for you,” Dipper mutters, rubbing his eyes and sitting up tall to crack his back. He throws the covers off and realizes, with mild horror, that he’s wearing SpongeBob boxers with his white t-shirt. “If you wouldn’t mind, I kind of need to change clothes.”

It takes Bill a moment to understand this means ‘get out’ in Dipper-speak. “Oh. Right, I forgot you’re weirdly self-conscious about body parts. I’ll go.”

“I am not weirdly self-conscious! I just have a sense of dignity.”

“Dignity, he says.” Bill pointedly looks at the boxers, but it feels too much like he’s checking him out and Dipper’s face gets a little red. He pulls the covers back over his legs until Bill gets up, swaddled in the yellow blanket from downstairs. At that point he realizes he’s probably going to have to find some clothes for Bill, too.

It’s 7:15 already, though, so there’s no way they can manage a shopping trip before the Shack is supposed to open for business. Dipper rummages through his untidy dresser drawers, searching for something in his wardrobe that might fit the demon’s lanky figure. Most of his matching outfits are back at the apartment, for Wendy’s satisfaction more than his. Here, he keeps one nice suit for occasions when he has to run tours, and a bunch of random graphic tees and blue jeans. He might have better luck finding something for Bill in the gift shop, honestly.

When he takes a step back to just think about this, trying to find clothes for an amnesiac demon that showed up naked in his home, it sounds absolutely ridiculous. And yet here he is.

Bill is sitting in the armchair again, struggling with the TV remote, when a wad of clothes hits him squarely in the chest. “For me?” He sounds delighted.

“Try them. The shirt might not fit, but you can take one from the gift shop since you’ll be working in there today anyways.”

“I get to work in the gift shop?” This day just keeps getting better and better for Bill, apparently. Dipper nods and steers him down the hall to the bathroom before he tries to throw off the blanket and try the new clothes on right there in the living room.

Breakfast is ready by the time Bill joins him in the kitchen, with his pants on backwards and the shirt so stretched on his chest that it makes him look like a cheerleader in a crop top. Dipper bursts out laughing, and Bill looks downright offended.

“Do I not look good?”

“You look fabulous, don’t worry.” Deciding he won’t be completely cruel today, Dipper starts to give him a word of advice on the pants. “You might want to turn your pants the other way around – but I guess it can wait?”

Bill’s already busy inhaling his pancakes. There’s syrup on the table, but he doesn’t use it, pulling one plain pancake after another off the stack. Maybe the chocolate chips in the batter make up for it.

“These are delicious,” he moans, quite literally, and it’s really not right for anybody to make that kind of noise about food, especially not Dipper’s cooking.

“They’d be better if Wendy made them.” Dipper pulls a few onto his own plate and drowns them in syrup, cutting them up messily to eat in smaller chunks.

A pang of longing hits him mid-bite, because he was absolutely right, Wendy’s taste way better. He thinks of her dancing around the kitchen to her favorite music while she cooks, her red hair flying, but somehow she never burns them. He makes himself a mental note to call her before customers start coming in.

“Your sister?”

“No, that’s Mabel. She does make some pretty mean pancakes too. Wendy is my girlfriend.”

“Ahh.”

Dipper can’t be sure if that’s a response to him or the food.

After another nudity mishap in the bathroom (by the time Dipper remembers he’s letting Bill go commando, it’s too late to tell him to pull his pants back up if he wants Bill to put them on right), and when Bill is clothed, minus a shirt, they go out to set up in the gift shop. Rather, Dipper sets up while Bill plays with the Stan bobbleheads and feels the urge to touch every item in the store at least once before he can focus.

Pulling on a hat with a familiar blue pine tree etched on it, Bill crosses his arms over his chest and swaggers around, declaring, “I’m Dipper and I have problems with seeing other men naked, wear pants at all times or face my wrath!”

It takes all Dipper’s willpower not to encourage him with laughter, so he turns away and tries to work out his blue bow tie. Stan bought him this suit for his eighteenth birthday, accompanying a trust speech mostly consisting of “you’re a man now” and “I’m gonna rely on you to take up some responsibilities in the Shack if you plan to stay in town,” so the suit was really just to ensure that Dipper wouldn’t dress like a slob on occasions like this when he has to be the frontman of the Mystery Shack.

“Need some help with that?” Bill won’t take no for an answer, already straightening out Dipper’s lapels and batting his hands away so he can deal with the tie. “Oddly enough, this is one of the few things I remember how to do.”

The doorbell jingles, making Dipper jump. They never expect customers this early, and the two of them are still only half-dressed. How would this look to people? Standing on tiptoes to see over Bill’s shoulder, he finds it’s just the other summer employee, the average teenager who may as well be a copy of Wendy at that age but with blue streaks in her hair. That’s unfair on his part, though. He should at least try to remember her name. What is it, Erica? Angel?

“Angela?” he tries, and it sounds about right. “Good morning.”

“Hellooo gorgeous,” she drawls, and Dipper knows there’s no way she means him because she’s always been about as warm as a block of ice towards him.

Grinning wolfishly, Bill glances over his shoulder, tossing hair out of his eyes, before he returns his attention to Dipper, pulling the bow tie just so. “There. You look handsome,” he comments, still with that grin.

If Angela’s mouth hangs open any longer she’ll be drawing flies in. Dipper coughs and directs Bill to the rack of souvenir clothes. “Shirt, now.”

At Mabel’s suggestion, Stan upgraded his merchandise to include a variety of colors for the question mark shirts; thankfully, he didn’t listen to her demands to bedazzle all of them. Naturally, Bill picks out a yellow one. It’s a little wide, but at least it doesn’t ride up on him and will hopefully keep the customers from ogling him. It might just be Angela he has to worry about, though.

While Dipper is showing Bill how the cash register works, Angela slinks up to the counter, practically drooling. “What’s your name and can I have your number?”

“His name is Bill and we’re a little busy,” Dipper cuts in before Bill can answer. “Somebody has to teach him how to work the register, since you probably won’t be any help today.”

“Oh I can teach him.” Angela hops up to sit on top of the counter, elbowing Dipper out of the way to get closer to Bill. “Don’t you worry, Dillon, I got this. You go do the tour thing or whatever. We’ll be just fine on our own.”

She doesn’t seem to get the hint when Dipper glares at her finger tracing along Bill’s upper arm. He snorts and walks away, hands in the air. “If you screw up a day’s worth of sales, I’ll let Grunkle Stan kill you, not me.” He might not be so irritated if she’d gotten his name right, but Dillon? That’s not even close!

The sign is flipped to ‘OPEN’ and everything is in order for business. Everything he can think of, at least. For the first time, a wave of anxiety hits him over this. What if things don’t go according to plan? What if he lets Grunkle Stan down?

As hard as he tries to remember the people-are-wallets theory Stan taught him, he just sees people as they walk through, tourists in corny shirts, parents corralling their nose-picking children, a lot of elders, all people he has to impress. Dipper sucks in a big breath, straightens his tie one last time, and steps towards a family that’s been milling around aimlessly.

“Hi, uh.” _Entertaining voice, Dipper._ “Welcome to the Mystery Shack! Step right up for one very astounding, very _mysterious_ tour of our facilities!”

The parents spread the word to other adults, and soon enough there’s a sizable crowd gathered around Dipper, nearly trapping him in the corner. He manages to get them to form an orderly line to pay before he starts the tour. With a final look to make sure Angela and Bill are actually doing their job (Bill seems dedicated enough, even with Angela fawning over him), Dipper guides the tourists outside and starts rattling off fake facts about the Rock That Looks Like A Face Rock.

One hour of bullshitting his way through tour-leading later, Dipper returns in desperate need of water. He chugs one-and-a-half bottles of water and wipes his forehead with a handkerchief, sitting on a barrel beside the check-out counter with a relieved sigh. The next tour isn’t for another hour. Even if that means he’ll have to endure Angela hitting on Bill for sixty minutes, at least he can rest. She’s already been wooed by his sad, sad tale of amnesia, even though it limits the amount of personal questions she can ask him. Bill, for his part, doesn’t seem to understand her flirting.

At the end of the day, there’s still work to be done: taking inventory, restocking, checking to make sure the records are straight. Dipper really doesn’t want to. He lets Angela go home early, but, miraculously, it’s hard to get her out the door. Out of earshot of Bill, she stops to ask,

“So who’s the hottie, really? New boyfriend?”

“Seriously?” Dipper pinches the bridge of his nose and waves a hand for emphasis. “I’m not gay, I have a _girlfriend_.” _Oh, shit, I forgot to call her,_ he realizes. Well, better late than never, hopefully.

“That doesn’t mean anything, but okay, then, I’ve got dibs.”

He rolls his eyes and shoos her away. The bell above the door clangs for the last time of the day when he shuts it, and he leans back against it, exhaling slowly.

“Aw, you already undid the bow tie.” Bill sounds pouty. Where is he, anyways? “You looked good in a suit, Dipper.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like dressing this fancy 24/7, sorry to disappoint.”

Dipper shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over one arm, leaning over to look down the opening in a circular rack of shirts. Bill is sitting on the floor like a little kid, grinning up at him.

“Should I take this shirt off and put it back?”

“No, man, that’s gross, even to me. You keep it. Come on.”

He pulls Bill out of the shirts and takes him back inside the homey part of the Shack. It feels much safer to give him access to things inside here when he doesn’t have his memories, but Dipper’s still on guard. Or, he’d like to think he is, but really he’s so tired he probably wouldn’t be able to fight if Bill tried anything. Besides, Bill is practically harmless. He’s actually pretty good company.

“Looks like mac ’n cheese tonight,” Dipper announces, pulling two boxes out of a cabinet and tossing them on the stove.

The kitchen isn’t as well stocked as he’d expected, so he’d probably end up doing a grocery run sometime this week. It might actually be kinda fun to take Bill shopping. It’s only been a day and Dipper knows he’s gotten way too comfortable with the situation. He looks behind him at the unaware demon, who’s resting his head on his arms at the kitchen table. Is he napping?

Smiling, Dipper dials Wendy’s number and puts the phone to his ear as he stirs the pasta. To his disappointment, it goes to voicemail, but it’s nice to hear the personalized message anyways. After the beep, he says, “Hey, it’s me. Hope everything’s okay with your cousin. Give me a call back when you can. I love you.”

The phone is left on the counter as he serves the mac ’n cheese in two bowls. “Wake up, sleepyhead. You need to eat something, then you can go to bed.”

For the first time, he thinks about sleeping arrangements. The armchair might be comfortable for the night if you’re a small child, or only half-conscious, but Dipper would feel bad about making Bill sleep there again. His own bed here is big enough for two – barely, but he and Wendy have tested it and certified it good for sleeping. And for other nighttime activities. Man, he misses having her here for more reasons than originally anticipated. But it’s only a week, and he knows he can survive without sex for at least that long.

He glances over at Bill, whose cheeks are stuffed so full he looks like a hamster. Dipper laughs, and Bill starts to but nearly chokes on the mac ’n cheese. Dipper feels a little bad for laughing then, but he gives Bill a few hard pats on the back to help out.

“This is so good,” Bill mumbles appreciatively when he can breathe again. He scrapes the sides of the bowl with his spoon and licks all the cheese off of it. “Is there more?”

“You said that about the pancakes, too, but I’ll have you know my cooking is really sub-par. Flattery will get you nowhere,” he teases, taking their bowls to refill them.

Bill takes his second helping more slowly. “It’s almost like being a child,” he says after a moment. “I feel like I’ve never eaten this. Every experience is so new to me, even though I’ve surely done this stuff before, right?”

“Surely,” Dipper agrees, forcing himself to act natural.

He really should have planned for this, because it makes sense that Bill would start asking questions that he can’t answer. Suddenly he’s having second thoughts about letting the guy sleep anywhere near him, but it’s not like he can kick him out without revealing the whole story anyways. And then what?

The plan was to make Bill feel human, but even if it works, what will it achieve? Is it really possible to keep the demon blind to who he is and let him live and help out in the Mystery Shack forever? Dipper wishes he had someone to tell him what to do about this.


End file.
